


Chasing the wild-deer and following the roe

by isasolan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Child Soldiers, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Grooming, Orphans, Spies & Secret Agents, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:03:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: "You didn't know that, did you? She was R, the head of recruitment, for years back in the 80s. You were her last hand-pick to make it this far."He'd thought she was a social worker, or a solicitor executing his father's will (there were so many of those). Kincade had never explained, and James was too young to care.M, or rather, R, as she is known then, meets her newest recruit in the Highlands.(A/N: Nothing romantic or sexual.)





	Chasing the wild-deer and following the roe

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet expands on events and ideas alluded to in my other Bond fic, ["Thy Sins" (AU where Silva survives Hong Kong)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3556583), but it can be read as a standalone. If you don't feel like reading that, in brief, part of the plot is that M started scouting the agents that would become her Double-0s when they were very young boys, and emotionally roped them into her schemes to train them as perfects spies - with varying degrees of success. 
> 
> James is just about to turn 12, and the year is 1985.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She _finds_ him, which is aggravating for two reasons.

 

One, that James was sure no one would ever find him here: the rugged, uneven terrain dips  naturally into a little nook (not quite a cave, but cozy enough to keep the frigid wind away) that is invisible from the road. James checked, from all angles. This was supposed to be his best hiding spot. It was top secret. Not even Kincade knew about it.

 

And two, social workers normally aren't this persistent. They show up at the Manor, wait there, and eventually give up when James is nowhere to be found. He made a dash for the hills as soon as he spotted the black car driving down the glen. But the woman hadn't even stopped at the house. She got out of the car, looked straight in James's direction, and began walking up the hills. She never hesitated or slowed down, not even in the muddiest part of the trail - she just walked up right to where James is hiding.

 

And here she stands, staring down at him. She isn't smiling.

 

"Hello, James," she says. She sounds like the people on the Beeb, prim and proper.

 

James doesn't answer. Maybe if he glares at her hard enough she'll go away.

 

But she doesn't. She just stands there - doesn't even shiver when the wind blows her coat open. Her shoes got dirty on the hike up. She doesn't seem to care. That's when James realises her clothes are unusually posh. She's wearing this... this _really nice_ black overcoat, and a _really nice_ pearl necklace. The other social workers never dressed like this, they all wore ugly, cheap frocks. But her? She looks fancy. She reminds James of... of… Mum, maybe. No. No, it mustn't be.

 

"Bugger off," he tells her. In his best Kincade imitation. But she looks amused, rather than offended.

 

"I will, soon. But don't you want to hear what I've come to say?"

 

"I know what ye've come to say," James answers, and because he's angry his voice comes out all wrong. He's taken the Kincade too far, and he sounds like a Scottish farmer. He hates it, so he gets rid of it, copying her diction to add, "My parents are dead, the money is all mine, and I must go to school. Well, I say: bugger off. I can't be bothered to go to school. Never have."

 

"Haven't you?" she asks, an eyebrow raised. "Your marks were exceptional in Geneva."

 

Oh.

 

Just hearing it out loud hurts so much. The tears well up in James's eyes too fast for him to do anything about it. That was a happy time, wasn't it. Mum walked him to school every day. They had lunch together. Of course he had good marks then. He wanted Mum to be proud. It had lasted almost a year. But then father came back. They sent James back to Scotland. Back to nothingness. Forgotten. And then they died. He curls his fists into balls, and looks away.

 

"I've just come back from there," she says, very gently. She sits next to him, right on the grass. "I thought this might cheer you up."

 

The tears make it a bit hard to see what she's handing him, so James wipes his eyes with his sleeve. For nothing, because as soon as he sees what it is the tears come back again, and this time they spill a little. It's _chocolate_. A real Favarger bar, wrapped in silver, _noir et amandes_ , complete with the Swiss flag in a corner. His favorite. The same kind Mum use to give him for dessert every day, back then.

 

"For me?" he asks, in a whisper. He will not sob. He will not cry like a baby in front of this... this... who is she? What is she?

 

"Yes, for you, James."

 

He snatches it from her without thanking her, suddenly suspicious. How did she know? What does she want? At least it makes him not want to cry anymore. But it is hard to glare at the person who gave you chocolate. James tears open the wrap and brings the bar up to his nose to smell it. The same scent. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Mum next to him. But no: she's dead. The only one next to him is this strange woman.

 

"What's your name?" he asks her, side-eyeing her before taking the first bite (it's glorious: dark chocolate and almonds melting in his mouth as he chews). Maybe she's a solicitor: he's seen a few of those, coming to appraise the estate. It would explain the fancier clothes.

 

"Rosalind Mawley," she says. Something's off about her tone, somehow.

 

"Is it really?"

 

"Clever boy. It isn't, but that is what you may call me." She tears her gaze from him and looks away, surveying the land and taking in the scenery while he eats the rest of the chocolate. He eats it all. "You've chosen a good spot for hiding."

 

"How did you find me, then?" He's still upset about that.

 

"I know the land well," she says, dismissive.

 

"Don't lie. Ye're not from here," James objects, this time falling into the Scottish brogue on purpose. To make her feel _other_.

 

"Where do you think I am from, then?" She's looking at him again.

 

"London," he guesses.

 

"I am. Well done."

 

She smiles at him, for the first time: barely lifting the corner of her mouth, but a smile nonetheless. James takes a deep breath, it's like his chest swells up with unexpected pride. The smile is a reward. He doesn't know how he knows, but this woman doesn't give smiles freely, and he's just earned one. He grins back, before catching himself: he mustn't like her. She could still be here to pester him about school.

 

"If you must know," she adds, "I saw you running up the hills when we were approaching. Then I followed your footprints." She gestures towards the mud. "Next time, walk on the grass. It will hide your tracks better. Understood?"

 

Somehow it doesn't sound like she's scolding him. It rather sounds like she's _helping_ him, or letting him in on a secret. It's not half bad advice, too. He does like her, James decides.

 

"Aye," he says, a little gruffly.

 

She said "we". She must have a driver. James looks towards the manor, where her car is parked, but it's too far for him to be able to see anything worthwhile. So he looks at her instead. She carries herself too calmly, like she's secretly planning something - it keeps James guessing. Her hair is brown, and there's a touch of grey here and there. She's wearing Tweed under her black coat, like a man's, the _nice_ type of Tweed father used to wear.

 

"You're not a solicitor," he decides.

 

"No."

 

"Well then what are you? What do you want?"

 

"I just wanted to see how you are. I knew your father well."

 

"Did you? I never did. Hardly ever saw him."

 

He's found it usually shocks people when he says it like that. It's the truth. Father was never there. He rarely talked to James. Whenever he came to Scotland, it was to hunt. He'd always take Mum away to nice places, but never James. And she was always eager to leave. The other thing that works well to shock people is to say James hated his father. But it's not really true. In any case, it's rather that Father hated _him_. Didn't mind him. But this Rosalind woman doesn't seemed shocked in the least.

 

"Yes, I know," she says. "You've always been largely left to your own devices, haven't you?"

 

"Yes," he says, fists curled into balls again. He meant to sound defiant, but it came out all sad. Is that what he is? Some sad _orphan_? He hates everything. "Don't need anyone."

 

"It's a good skill to have, being on your own. But it isn't all there is. What do you want to do when you grow up?"

 

"I'm not going back to school," James growls, instantly on the defensive. He can tell where this is going.

 

"I've not said anything about school. School will wait. That isn't what I asked you, James."

 

"I dunnaw," he mumbles. He's never really wondered. But she stays silent for a long while, so he has to say something, eventually: "To go far away from here."

 

"Travel, you mean? There's many jobs where you can travel."

 

" I don't need a job. All the money's been left to me."

 

"Yes, I'm sure you're well aware." She is smirking again. "But it would quickly become very boring, hiding here every day with nothing to do all day. Don't you think?"

 

James doesn't say anything. It is boring. It's always been boring. The most fun he had was whenever he was taken abroad to Switzerland, or Germany. He's rather partial to Italy, too. But it isn't so bad here. He likes the land. No one bothers him. Kincade used to give him grief about going to school, before. He stopped insisting when his parents died. All the better. Walking two hours to the nearest village so he can sit with twenty other boys and get yelled at or beaten by the teachers isn't very high on James's list of priorities.

 

"Kincade's been teaching me to hunt," he says.

 

"Is he?" She turns her head sharply and looks straight at him. "Do you like it?"

 

"Aye."

 

"Well, if your aim is any good, you could become a soldier one day."

 

Is she doubting his aim is good? Kincade's been proud of him for weeks. ' _Never seen such a wee lad aiming like this,_ ' he'd said. He takes after his father, apparently.

 

"My aim's alright!" James says, indignantly. "I can hit all the cans. When the hunting season starts, I'll be even better."

 

"Good," she says. "Keep practicing."

 

There's something in the way she says it, perfectly soothing, like she is taking every word James says very seriously. It mollifies him. He sits back, stares at her some more. He could be a soldier, he guesses. He's never really thought about it. There's helicopters flying over the glen in the winter sometimes - the RAF. They're alright.

 

"Some soldiers get to travel all over the world. They go on missions to far away places, and get to see new lands," she says, in such a soft tone. Like she's reading him a bedtime story. Not that James would know. No one ever read to him. He swallows. He'd like to lean against her, somehow. Her coat looks warm - far warmer than James feels in his worn-out jumper. "They must be very brave, fearless, bold, and ready to fight for their country, no matter how difficult it may be," she goes on. James gives in, and leans closer to her. She doesn't seem surprised. "The best ones go undercover on their missions, to make sure no one recognises them. They must be exceptionally good at hiding. Like you seem to be."

 

"Why are you telling me this?" James says, pressing against her arm. She shifts to let him share some overcoat space. She's warmer than he is, like he expected. It feels good. It's almost a cuddle.

 

"Because, James, it won't always be like this - you, left alone like no one cares what becomes of you. I promise it won't be. You can become whatever you wish to be. But even the best soldiers must go to school to become officers."

 

Ah, there it is. But somehow, instead of feeling angry, James feels just... tired. Maybe because it's so cozy against her. He doesn't want to argue, not really.

 

"Don't want," he says anyway.

 

"You won't have to - not for a year, at least. But your father secured you a place at Eton when you were born. It would be a shame to waste it. I don't doubt for a second you'll be clever enough for the academic part. And there's a wide range of sporting activities you may entertain yourself with. The best in the country for your age. Fencing, shooting, boxing. Whatever you wish."

 

She _holds_ him, then, a half hug where she pulls him a bit closer and then lets go. James wants to scream at her not to leave but she stands up, and steps away from him. Both hands in the pockets of her coat. She looks very kind... but there's a hardness in her eyes, too. Maybe _she's_ a soldier, James realises. He gapes up at her.

 

"Think on it, James. I do believe you'd make an excellent soldier, later on."

 

She starts walking away. James wants to scream again, beg her not leave, beg her to take him with her. But he just sits there, fists tight, trying very hard not to cry, staring at her on her laborious descent back to the manor. He doesn't know a thing about her. What if he wants to see her again? He bolts from the nook, running downhill until he catches up to her. She turns to face him just as he reaches her, and he crashes against her, holding on tightly to her coat. She puts an arm around him, and with the other she strokes his hair. But she lets go, eventually.

 

"Will you come back to see me?" James asks.

 

"We may not see each other in many years, child."

 

No! Everyone always leaves. The tears come back with a vengeance. Why does James care so much? He doesn't even know her. He steps back, furious already. But she strokes his cheek, very gently. No one has touched James like this since Mum died. He bites his lip.

 

"But I will find you, James. You may not be aware of it, but I _will_ always be sure keep an eye on you. I know you'll grow into a brave young man. And when the time is right, we shall meet again."

 

She must be lying, she must. But James desperately wants to believe her. It's too much. He whirls away from her, and runs back up the hill. He needs a better hiding spot, one where she won't find him. He presses his fists against his eyes. He mustn't believe her. She must be lying. And yet he does want to be found.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
